


Augurey

by EachPeachPearPlum



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Gen, Having a child for nefarious purposes, Pregnancy, There are spells for that, Why would someone who thinks he's immortal want an heir?, evil characters being evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7629322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/pseuds/EachPeachPearPlum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>A thin and mournful-looking bird, somewhat like a small and underfed vulture in appearance, the Augurey is greenish black. It is intensely shy, nests in bramble and thorn, eats large insects and fairies, flies only in heavy rain and otherwise remains hidden in its tear-shaped nest.</em><br/><em>The Augurey has a distinctive low and throbbing cry, which was once believed to foretell death. Wizards avoided Augurey nests for fear of hearing that heart-rending sound, and more than one wizard is believed to have suffered a heart attack on passing a thicket and hearing an unseen Augurey wail.</em><br/> <br/>Extract from <em>Fantastic Beasts & Where To Find Them</em>, by Newt Scamander</p><p> <br/><em>Augur:</em><br/><em>—verb (used with object)</em><br/><em>to divine or predict, as from omens; prognosticate.</em><br/><em>to serve as an omen or promise of; foreshadow; betoken.</em><br/><em>—verb (used without object)</em><br/><em>to conjecture from signs or omens; predict.</em><br/><em>to be a sign; bode: The movement of troops augurs ill for the peace of the area.</em></p><p>Extract from <em>dictionary.com</em>, author unspecified</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>WARNING: MAJOR CURSED CHILD SPOILERS!</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Augurey

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case you missed it, here be SPOILERS.  
> Whilst I believe Cursed Child is one of the most magical things I have ever had the privilege to see, there remains a tiny niggle in the back of my brain: why would a man who believes himself to be more-or-less immortal feel the need for an heir? And, because my brain is Obtuse sometimes, it has neglected all my WiPs to try answer that niggle, so here goes nothing.  
> (Also, Happy Birthday, JKR. You'll never read this, but I figure I'll say it anyway. You are magic's gift to this earth)  
> (Also, still waiting for my letter, so if you could remind McGonagall to finish sorting out the post-Voldemort backlog, that'd be wonderful)

Once, when Cissy was no more than four or five and sobbing over some perceived injustice Druella had dealt her, she asked Bella if she thought their mother loved them. Bella laughed, told her their mother fed them, clothed them, and wanted the best from them and for them, and Cissy was a silly fool for expecting anything more than that.

Of course, Cissy had just run straight to Andromeda - _blood-traitor whore_ \- who hugged her, fussed over her and promised her that everything would be okay, and there began the crushing failure of the final Black women.

 

“Bellatrix,” the Dark Lord says, His voice soft, but since the only noise in the room is the whisper of cloaks against Narcissa’s too-thick carpets as Bella’s fellow Death Eaters leave the meeting, soft is all it needs to be. “Stay behind.”

Bella bows low, remaining obediently still until only she and the Dark Lord are left in the room, only then removing her mask and looking Her Lord in the eye.

The others don't do that, if they can help it, but Bella has never seen the point. Her loyalty to the cause and to the Dark Lord is unwavering and, as the old adage goes, a person with nothing to hide has nothing to fear.

The Dark Lord offers her something close to a smile and conjures two chairs towards the edge of the room. “Sit,” He instructs, then proceeds to have a hissing conversation with Nagini while Bella settles herself into what is a surprisingly comfortable chair. The snake coils around the Dark Lord’s chair, head resting on His feet as she stares unblinking at Bellatrix.

“I have a proposition for you,” He says, His gaze every bit as focused as Nagini’s. “I assume you're familiar with Bloodline Transference spells.”

Bella arches an eyebrow, recalling the day her mother’s Uncle Oskar received a terminal Scrofungulus diagnosis. _If I'm dying, it might as well be for a good cause,_ he’d said, and so Druella and her brothers had begun the preparations for the ritual. Andromeda, Narcissa and all the Rosier cousins were too young to take part, their mothers said, but Cygnus had insisted on Bella being present.

The resulting argument took place in the library, starting off calm, rational in the way that Black family arguments rarely were, but it had devolved rapidly into shouting that was loud enough to make its way through the locked door to where Bella and her sisters had been trying to listen in. Cissy ran away in tears when the first curse was thrown, Andromeda had followed to check the little idiot was okay, and Bella had remained crouched there, her eye to the keyhole, determined to hear how things ended.

Druella had conceded eventually, reluctantly, on the condition that Bella swore on her magic not to attempt the spell alone until she was of age and to never use it on her sisters, and no amount of shouting, cursing or threatening to revoke her right to the Black name had been enough to change her mother’s mind on that.

And so Bella swore, barely twelve but intelligent enough even then to understand why her mother wanted her to take that particular oath. An Unbreakable Vow would have killed her, yes, but if she had to choose between a relatively quick death or a long life with all the magic stripped from her soul, her answer hasn't changed in the last three decades. The oath terrified her - still does, a little - and it’s the only reason she didn't devour Andromeda’s magic the second her sister announced her intention to marry that Mudblood, but Bella doesn't regret it, not when that first ritual is the thing that sparked her Sight.

She can remember it to this day, the way Uncle Oskar twitched as the family placed their wands to his skin, the way the twitches turned to shudders as they took it in turns to speak the words of the ritual, Druella first, then the rest of the family in age order, until finally Bella got her turn.

Oskar was struggling for breath by that point, holding back whimpers of pain only by biting his tongue hard enough that a fine line of blood ran from his mouth. There wasn't much left for Bella to take by then, only the absolute dregs of his magic and his life force, but it was still something, and as Oscar exhaled for the last time something snapped into place in Bella’s brain.

_Aunt Walberga, howling at Sirius to get out of the nursery before he wakes his brother; a blonde girl, maybe Narcissa in a decade or two, pressing a decorous kiss to the cheek of an equally blond man; a man in black robes, a snake coiled around his shoulders; Bella herself, practically middle-aged, facing down a redheaded woman in what might be the Great Hall at Hogwarts._

She'd woken up two hours later, tucked up in one of the spare bedrooms at Rosier House, almost all of the Rosier relatives still living crammed into the room around her. _There hasn't been a Seer in the family for generations_ , her mother had said, beaming, after Bella had told her what she’d seen. _We’re descended from the first priestess at Delphi, you know_.

 _I know, Mother_ , Bella had answered, already familiar enough with her family history to have spent her first day at Hogwarts repeating it to everyone before realising that most of them weren't intelligent enough to understand how important it was.

“Bellatrix?” Her Lord says, loud enough to jar her back into the room with Him. Bella flinches reflexively - that tone of voice tends to be followed by screams, and since Bella’s the only person in the room, she isn't too optimistic about her chances - but, to her surprise, the Dark Lord looks almost indulgent.

“I am,” she answers, since that seems to be what He’s waiting for.

“And?”

Bella hesitates, though only for a second. “I was under the impression your family were dead, My Lord,” she says, refusing to flinch a second time, even though there's a moment where she cannot help but think of the Potter brat, the abilities he has and ought not to have, his uncanny survival again and again.

She dismisses the thought quickly, makes sure the Dark Lord knows how ridiculous she thinks the possibility. The idiot child looks too much like his idiot father - Bellatrix had the great displeasure of meeting James Potter and his Mudblood wife more than once, usually in the company of the half-breed, the rat, and her blood-traitor cousin - and the Dark Lord certainly wouldn't have fallen prey to His own offspring, nor waited this long to contemplate using him in a Transference ritual.

Had Her Lord ever sired a child, Bellatrix has no doubt He would have drained its magic and its life force within moments of it first drawing breath.

“And how would you feel about that?” He asks.

“It would certainly be the most expedient way of dealing with the creature,” Bella answers, thinking of her nephew, the only child with whom she is acquainted, and if Narcissa had had any sense she’d have drowned Draco the way Druella always did with the runt of their Kneazle litters.

 _Get rid of it quickly_ , Druella would say. _It'll die anyway. Better it be now, before it has the chance to disappoint._

The Dark Lord laughs, more amused than He has been since Bellatrix and her brethren returned from Hogwarts with the news that Draco had failed Him, the mission redeemed only by Snape’s intervention.

“I chose well,” He says, and proceeds to outline His plan.

 

 

There are spells for that, thankfully; Bella has done her duty by her family, her husband and her marriage bed, but only when required of her, and she feels little pleasure from the indignity of it. Other things are far more enjoyable than a man grunting and thrusting above her, such contorted expressions better when they are born of pain than ecstasy, and the only good thing about spending over a decade in Azkaban is that they put Rodolphus in a cell far from hers.

For reasons known only to Him, the Dark Lord does not insist.

 

Bellatrix practises the spells, Severus brews her the potions - _For Rodolphus and I_ , she tells him; he only looks at her, lip curling in disgust, and turns back to his work - and by the time Her Lord returns full of fury from Little Whinging, Bella has good news to greet him with.

 

The Mudlood shrieks at Bella’s feet, writhing agony as Bella heats the blood in her veins, nerves burning from the inside. The Mudblood shrieks, but she doesn't answer, doesn't tell them where she got the sword, and Bella doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to survive this, is going to die as soon as the Dark Lord returns, and-

The Mudlood shrieks, and Bella feels a not-quite pain in her side, something pushing at her belly, pushing out from inside her, something alive.

The baby is kicking, the Mudblood shrieks, and Bella realises she will live a little longer, at least until the thing is born. She still has time to mollify Her Lord, time to redeem herself, time to ensure only one need die on the day of the creature’s birth.

 

She butchers the goblins personally, with her bare hands, bows before Her Lord blood-streaked from head to toe, and places a hand on her belly.

He passes her by, unsmiling, and Lucius collapses under His Cruciatus.

 

“Almost there,” the Mediwitch says, staring up at Bellatrix with eyes that are blue and babyish and just as insipid as her tone. “You're doing so well,” she continues, while Bella grits her teeth and pushes and tries to distract her mind with happy thoughts.

 _I'm going to kill you when this is over_ , she thinks, as the woman persists with praising Bella for something women have been doing for centuries, as if it's any kind of achievement. _I'm going to kill you, and it will be slow, and I will enjoy it so very much._

“I see the head,” the woman chirps, while Bella fantasises about ripping out her fingernails and cursing her lungs full of maggots, of _Imperius_ ing her to eat her own eyeballs before strangling her with those impossibly tidy blonde ringlets. Anything to keep her from screaming or cursing aloud, because such a cacophony is only beautiful when the sounds aren't her own. “Just one more big push, and… That's it! Oh, _well done_!”

In amongst all the searing, tearing pain there's a slipping, slithering sensation, followed by even more disgusting cooing from the Mediwitch, though at least this time it's over the squalling creature Bella has just expelled from her body.

“There we are,” the woman simpers, while Bella tries to stop panting for breath. “Aren't you beautiful?” There are a few moments of blessed silence while she fusses with the baby, though it is unfortunately far too brief. “Here we go, lovely,” she continues, emerging from between Bella’s bent legs holding the disgusting creature. “Let’s let Mummy hold you, ay?”

Before Bellatrix can protest, the Mediwitch places the thing upon her chest, forcing Bella to wrap her arms around it to prevent it from falling to its death on the floor.

The thing - the baby, her daughter - wipes its disgusting slime against her skin and lets out a low, mournful wail that throbs oddly through Bella’s ribs. It peers up at her, eyes not almost-black like Bellatrix’s or Her Lord’s once were, nor are they red like His are now. Instead, the baby’s eyes are the same peculiar grey as both Bella’s feeble nephew’s and her blood-traitor cousins’, though somewhat more focused than any of theirs.

It stares up at her with its freakishly focused gaze, and Bellatrix has another flash of Sight, much the strongest she's ever had. It's just a second or two, like every other vision she's ever had, but it's so intense it's almost unnerving.

_There's a girl, maybe nineteen, grey eyed and blonde haired, her expression Black to the core. She's sat alone in the dark, eyes glazed, muttering under her breath as letters blaze themselves across the walls, and Bella is swept away by the power on display, the fact that what is possibly the most gifted seer in the last century was born of Bella’s body and her blood._

It's only a second or two, over before Bella can register more than a few words of her daughter’s prophecy, but it's enough to change everything.

She doesn't love the child, can't imagine ever loving her, but she will no longer allow her to be a sacrifice to fulfill the Dark Lord’s plans. An oracle this gifted will serve their cause far better alive than dead, and Bellatrix will endure whatever tortures she must in order to convince Her Lord of this.

“Prepare me a bath,” she orders the midwife, deciding she will forego the pleasure of causing her death in exchange for deflecting a little of Her Lord’s wrath. She waits until the woman has flicked her wand in the direction of the bathtub before continuing, quite certain that her next words will leave her too scared to be of any use. “Then clean the child up, and take news of her birth to the Dark Lord.”

The woman pales, her previously rosy cheeks now bordering on ashen, the infuriating cheer she maintained through Bella’s labour dissolving into a wild terror that is delicious to behold. “What should I tell him, Madam Lestrange?” she asks, demonstrating rather more courage than Bella thought she possessed.

“Tell Him it's a girl,” she answers. “Tell Him she will be called Delphini, for the Oracle whose blood and whose gift she possesses. Tell Him that her Sight is of greater value to Him than her lifeblood would be.”

“Yes, Madam Lestrange,” the Mediwitch whispers, after a long pause in which she clearly hopes Bella is going to revoke that order, and it is with great relish that Bella watches her hands tremble as she washes the mess of childbirth from Delphini’s skin and places her in the cot at the foot of Bella’s bed.

Bellatrix stands slowly, glad of both the pain relief potions Severus is so good at brewing and of the various charms to hasten her recovery the Mediwitch cast during her labour. She sheds her glamoured maternity robe on the way to the tub, using it to wipe away as much of the blood as possible before dropping it to the floor and stepping carefully into the steaming water.

“Go now,” she says, lowering herself into the bath, hearing the hiccupy gasp the woman takes as she steps through the door of Bella’s bedroom. “Leave the door open a crack.”

The Mediwitch obeys, and Bella waits until her footsteps have faded into nothing before sliding down in the bathtub until the water reaches her shoulders and beginning a slow, steady countdown from ten.

The first scream starts just as she reaches two, echoing off the walls of the room the way it is supposed to, caught up and thrown back at her by the chords of magic Bella has woven into the green-black tapestries that line the wall. It would be a better deathsong if she were in the room, of course, and even better if it was Bella’s wand she was screaming under, but maybe there'll be enough left for her to play with later.

Bella rests her arms on the sides of the bathtub, closes her eyes, and smiles.


End file.
